


Criminal Acts

by Lucretiassister



Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: F/M, Poldark series 5, Poldark spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 15:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20490872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucretiassister/pseuds/Lucretiassister
Summary: Series Five spoilers! Post 5.08, one of Ross's co conspirators meets her end. Also an attempt to explore--and explain--Ross's devastating deception.





	Criminal Acts

**Author's Note:**

> A fix it fic of sorts to help ease any upset by the first half of Poldark 5.08. Beware major spoilers! Thanks to mymusingsfromtheheart for the inspiration and xxSparksxx for supplying an explanation of why Ross went down such a slippery slope in the first place.

“Oh Dwight, is it true? What folks are saying?” Demelza rose to her feet, handkerchief twisting in her fretful fingers. The delicate lace caught on her rough hands, dried and cracked from kneading dough and stacking hay'

Dwight, grey faced, entered the Nampara parlour and gave his wife, Caroline, a perfunctory kiss on the cheek before answering the question put to him. 

Ross had already left them weeks before, on a covert assignment abroad and Demelza was slowly adjusting to his absence from Cornwall yet again. Caroline’s company at Nampara was always appreciated and the two had made a pact to comfort one another in the months to come. For Dwight was to set sail the next day on his own mission--an academic one--and planned to meet Ross in Paris shortly thereafter. 

But unexpectedly in the midst of his preparations, Dwight had been summoned to Truro on a sensitive professional manner. And of course before the doctor had returned home, news of what it was he’d found had already leaked in the village. 

Caroline looked over her teacup and flashed a contrived but still anxious smile, and said nothing. She knew her husband had bonds of confidentiality with his patients that might possibly extend to the dead, and that he’d tell what he could and would remain tight-lipped about the rest. Yet if anyone could coax him to share more than just the pertinent facts, it might just be Demelza. Caroline knew Dwight had a low threshold for tolerating his friend’s pain, having been witness to much of the strife Demelza had endured over these many years.

“I’m afraid so, Demelza. I’ve identified the..._body,_” Dwight said delicately, “and the cause of death,” he added more clinically. “It was indeed Tess Tregidden.”

“Tess? And she...she was…” Demelza stammered.

“Murdered. It was no accident, I can say that with surety.” Dwight removed his gloves and hat and sighed. The whole situation seemed both expected and yet still illogical somehow.

Just the week before, Jacka Hoblin’s lifeless body was found washed on the cold beach. He’d been in the water some time, but even without medical training, anyone would be able to identify the gruesome flap across his throat. It was a fate not unusual for someone considered a traitor, a sneak, and a thief. 

So perhaps Tess’s death seemed to be part of a larger scheme to rid the county of the last remnants associated with the foiled French invasion plot. But who would have ordered it? After the peace, the French no longer cared--did they? If so that would mean Ross of all people might be in the most danger while on French soil. But could their vindictive reach extend as far as Truro? 

Dwight doubted it. This was just as likely the work of a local Cornishman resentful that they’d been put in deliberate, intentional peril when there was danger enough in mining, fishing, or just day to day living. And if that was the case then, well, anyone really had cause to commit such a criminal act.

“Dwight, tell me?” Demelza asked softly.

“It’s really no tale for a gentlewoman,” Dwight shook his head emphatically and accepted the glass of port he’d been given. He would have preferred something stronger for his nerves--Ross’s French rum perhaps had it not borne the taint of illicit smuggled goods. Besides, the port was on offer from Demelza, not dug from Ross’s cabinet of spirits, so the gesture was heartfelt, generous, meaningful.

“I am no gentlewoman, Dwight,” Demelza began her familiar refrain. “You forget I’m the….”

“Daughter of a miner," he finished for her. “Yes, you oft remind us of that when you are foolishly walking headfirst into danger, don’t you? But that old miner is long dead, Demelza, and you have spent far more of your life in the gentle confines of this world.” Dwight gently waved his glass around the warm, well-furnished parlour of Nampara. “You are more refined than you care to admit.”

“Well I _ am _ a gentle woman,” Caroline scoffed at her husband’s stubborn refusal. “But one of the privileges of my sex and station is that I get to make demands of those around me and they are obliged to indulge my fancies! And I assure you that the lurid details supplied by my own imagination most likely surpass reality. So spare your wife, dear Dwight, and share this little sordid tale so we can begin to…”

_ Put this ordeal behind us_, Demelza thought. 

Demelza did think it was possible to do so, and after the days--and nights--of fevered reconciliation with Ross, she had come to see his romantic ruse with Tess had not cut her as deeply as she’d originally suspected. Of course when she’d first learned, it felt a mortal wound. Those feelings of being adrift, devoid of all life, and unable to find her footing had been torturous. Yet the terrifying spectre was but a nightmare--and one from which she had the good fortune of waking up.

Oh how Ross had wept in her arms! He’d unburdened his heartsore regret to her and explained, that while the plot to infiltrate the insurgents had unfolded over the course of five long months, his connection to Tess had really only taken that intimate, and most regrettable, turn in the last few weeks. 

\----

At first Ross had grave doubts that he’d ever be able to break through the seditious conspiracy once he learned the extent of Tess’s involvement. He knew the resentment she harboured against his class, against him, against Demelza. Even if he thought it possible, he did not particularly _ want _to gain her trust. But it was also conceivable, highly likely in fact, that she was untrustworthy, a weak link in this whole endeavour. If she capriciously switched sides or boastfully talked to the wrong person? No, Ross had to make sure Tess was kept satisfied and committed to the scheme. But how?

Then one day Ross saw an opening that he impulsively--wisely, yet also regrettably--seized upon. He caught her lip curl into a sneer and her brow raise just slightly when Laurent, their French comrade, spoke condescendingly about a woman’s place in France’s new order. Clearly he had forgotten the true principles of revolution in service of his inflated sense of superiority.

Yes, if Ross could exploit whatever ill will Tess felt towards this outsider at this moment, while still preventing her from revealing their plans to others out of spite, it might show him to an advantage.

Ross started small. One evening he brought a flagon of home brewed ale to their secret meeting, knowing Laurent, would reject it. Ross offered Tess a surreptitious wink.

“As I planned. That means more for us,” he said. “Drink it now, for after the invasion it will be only fussy French brandy for we simple Cornish folk.”

She laughed--as he hoped she would. And then he realised he’d reached her with his charm--a flirtatious one he usually kept more carefully guarded outside of select, _ beloved _company. Still, it was a well-honed weapon he might need to employ.

From that night on, Ross and Tess would exchange quiet jokes at the expense of their foreign friend, sometimes when the man was out of earshot or sometimes using local vernacular and even old Cornish to disguise their derision. The bond formed more quickly than Ross had imagined. Who knew it took so little to break down the woman's defenses?

Then Ross noticed Tess began to linger when she touched him--a brush of the hand when passing over a purloined document, a grab of his arm when the rocky floor under them proved uneven. He steeled himself to accept these touches. He hated it but suspected if he bristled, she’d notice and pull her trust away.

Oh, she knew things! Ross was certain of it. He simply had to get her to confide in him too. Or at least make sure she didn't leak information if some better offer arose.

One chilly evening as they sat before a small fire, carefully tended so the smoke would escape and not suffocate them in their hidden cave but also not so raging as to be detected by anyone wandering the hillside, Ross made a bold move and took Tess’s hand in his. She sidled closer at once, flashing a look in her eyes that was bright yet also vulnerable.

Ross felt sorry for her in the moment--she clearly had so few comforts and perhaps never any real love in her life. If only touching her wasn’t such a betrayal to his sweet Demelza--the truest love and greatest comfort a man could know.

Oddly their first kiss almost felt less treacherous. By that point Ross was impatient and determined to push things along--for the sooner it all came to a head, the sooner it would end. The weight of this subterfuge was crushing him. He especially despised the deception he brought home each night.

So when he first kissed Tess, Ross felt as though he was falling from a great height but that he’d long ago jumped willingly from the cliff. 

As expected, it was Tess that made the move. She had grabbed his middle and wrapped herself around him from behind, as he sat examining a map with Laurent.

Ross had turned to look at her and accidentally brushed against her lips, not expecting them to be so close. She seized the opportunity and kissed him hard on his mouth. Her intentions and her desires were undisguised.

“Tess,” he hissed. He wanted to push her away, to bite her even. He knew he had to fight that impulse and he hated it. He loathed every nerve in his body that jumped and twitched at her touch and hoped he could at least feign a satisfactory attraction--and hide his revulsion.

“I want ‘ee, Captain, and I’m bound to have ‘ee,” she purred.

“Indeed you shall,” he growled and kissed her ear. It was better than her lips and perhaps would placate her for the time being. But no, she insisted on one more open mouthed kiss before they resumed their business with their French conspirator.

Ross was grateful for the swig of rum that rinsed away her taste. But he could still smell her on his skin. He wanted more than anything to run home to Demelza and make love to her tenderly--even furiously--to rid himself of Tess’s taint. And then he saw it would be impossible to touch Demelza until this ordeal was fully behind them. He could never allow such putrid thoughts--thoughts of this other woman, of his guilt, of his deceit, of Tess’s rough sexual overtures--to contaminate the sacred bedchamber he shared with Demelza. He’d fought too hard and far too long to restore their marriage, and his love and passion for Demelza was a temple that was not to be defiled.

From that point on Ross employed multiple strategies to keep Tess at bay. He contrived that they'd never be alone and blamed urgent mine business calling him away when they weren’t actively attending their plans of suborning a foreign insurrection. He tried to intentionally cultivate an emotional bond--or a false one anyway--to keep Tess close while putting off her physical advances. He’d openly speak of the tiring demands families placed on a man, how genteel life was constricting to a man’s pleasures, how a man had a right to diversions outside the home. All things he’d heard men of his class spout--none of which he’d ever felt himself. 

It was hardly a harmless conceit as it betrayed Demelza so deeply. Ross knew of Tess’s resentment against her former mistress and he marveled at his wife’s compassion for the woman--even after she'd dismissed Tess from service. But nonetheless this tack seemed to work. Tess was sympathetic to Ross’s plight, only she wanted to demonstrate her understanding in _ other _ ways_. _ Her hand would often brush against his crotch or cup his backside, her fingers tugged his neck cloth, wandered in his curls, strummed his cheek. Then one day she deliberately scratched him, leaving a mark on his flesh. She was growing impatient and testing him--perhaps posting a challenge to Demelza who would no doubt notice her brand.

Finally Ross enlisted Laurent himself as a firewall. Ross managed to get him alone and sheepishly explained just why he appreciated the Frenchman’s presence to help keep Tess at arm’s length. 

“It’s rather embarrassing,” Ross mumbled, “but so much rum has an effect on my ability to perform certain…” he said with supposed chagrin. “Let's just say some weapons are better left sheathed tonight,” Ross whispered. 

“But of course,” Laurent laughed a boastful sneer, happy to triumph over this aging Cornish man. 

“It’s bad enough to take abuse from my wife for such occurrences,” Ross went on. “It could not be tolerated from my _ mistress._” 

There. He’d said the word--_mistress_. Ross felt it the vilest word he’d ever uttered. But would that be enough to convince Laurent without having to demonstrate more? 

On another night when Tess was out of earshot, Laurent inadvertently helped Ross’s delay tactics by suggesting aloud that the girl might not be _clean._

“Oh Captain, you know what it is I am saying…” Laurent said, drawing the sentence out in his overly accented French. Ross suspected that was for effect. “The _French _ women know to attend to these things, to prevent such matters, but these filthy English women…” he continued. 

Ross gulped, admiring the truly awful position he’d found himself in. He wanted to defend his beloved English women--clean and unclean--but also was grateful for yet another convenient excuse. As much as it pained him, if Ross played along, Laurent would not doubt his reluctance to lay with Tess.

“Quite right but I’m afraid I’ll need you assistance my friend,” Ross whispered, scratching himself through his breeches for added emphasis. “Ask anything in return of me, just don't leave me alone with her again.”

And so Ross thought he had it all under control. But when he found himself exchanging bitter words with Demelza one evening at Nampara, he felt it all unravel in his hands. At first Ross thought mere omissions would not really count as lies but he knew in his heart that he was wrong and gravely so. His disgust at such self-deceit compounded quickly.

He had not meant to speak so sharply--so _ darkly_. He was ashamed he could still summon such blackness from within, and was appalled that he was able to aim such keen blows at Demelza, of all people. But she was perceptive and she knew something was amiss. And Ross resented that all his months of machinations and calculations might be for nought. If anyone could see through him, point out his mistakes--and be right--it would be Demelza.

Ross saw his had been a cheap response too. He knew if he made her angry--afraid even--she’d pull back and ask no more of him. He just couldn’t risk her asking anything. But afterwards he thought about what he had chosen to say to her, the wounds he had reopened, maliciously tearing at them with his bare hands! It was driven by self-loathing really. He’d such arrogance that this ruse could be pulled off without a hitch and now Demelza threatened that self-deception. She’d seen through him and he was genuinely angry towards her for it.

If Ross thought taking Tess’s hand in his was the first step of his betrayal, then speaking to Demelza with such violence was an act far worse. And would have to be his last.

Yet Ross, of course, had no idea what his wife had actually witnessed. If he had--what would he have said? Would he have had the strength in such a confrontation to keep up the facade or would the whole scheme crumble instantly, like a carelessly built house of cards? And regardless of all that, what danger had he put his family into already?

If Ross was caught--by either side--before his mission had come to fruition, he’d be hanged--a traitor's death. The Poldark reputation would be in tatters and his children’s futures would be ruined. And his precious Demelza would be forever destroyed. 

So wasn’t it better this way? To hurt her now--perhaps to mar her faith even--if it meant there still remained a sliver of hope he might succeed and they’d all be well in the end?

_ My god, how I’ve grown good at the lies_, he berated himself.

\---

“Tell me,” Demelza repeated to Dwight. He nodded solemnly. 

“Tess’s neck was broken,” he swallowed hard. 

It had been a grisly scene. She was abandoned there--not laid out on the bed but left dangling over the edge so the odd angle at which her head hung would be apparent at once to anyone who entered the room. The act had been performed with contempt and efficiency. There were no signs of concealment or of regret, as there might have been were it a crime of passion. In fact its deliberate hardness was a sign to others--a warning to beware.

“Tess was alone in her bedchamber, a grim room above a rather rough inn. Her nightdress, as it were, was rent in more than one place,” Dwight looked into his glass as he spoke. The garment had also been hiked up obscenely, exposing her bare and ill-used flesh. “She had on what appeared to be cosmetics--excessively made up in fact, I almost didn’t recognise her face. As though she were…”

“A harlot?” Caroline offered.

“Yes,” Dwight said. “But curiously my initial inquiries both at the inn and around Truro found no madams or houses of such nature that were familiar with Tess or her...services.” Even if Tess had taken up this desperate vice on her own, others surely would have gotten scent of her presence.

“You are familiar with such a trade in Truro?” Caroline raised a brow.

“In my professional capacity, Caroline, I am familiar with many people in many trades,” Dwight said simply. 

“So someone did that to her? Ripped her clothes, painted her face, just to make her death that much more..._undignified_?” Demelza gasped.

“Well I think she’s come to a just ending,” Caroline interjected. “She was a villain who wantonly wounded others! Making advances at a married person should be a criminal offence.”

“No, Caroline,” Demelza said slowly. “I believe it is possible that...well, we’ve--all of us--loved a body guilty of such offence at one time or ‘nother.” She didn't mention names--Dwight, Hugh, Ross, even Drake. There wasn't a need. “Sometimes the heart tells us what it wants--what we think it wants--and it don’t matter if someone is bound to ‘nother by marriage vows.”

At this they were all silent for a moment.

“Well, she was _ still _ a traitor to the Crown, whatever that’s worth,” Caroline persisted. ”And a thief of _your _ ore--an insult to the honest men who laboured to mine it in the first place!”

“Traitors come in all shapes and sizes, my dear,” Dwight said, shaking his head dispiritedly. “There are some right now enjoying well laid tables and the titles of peerage, who ruthlessly steal from honest men, who daily and in the name of profit, scheme and act with less conviction and in even greater detriment to their country than simple old Tess. And they are less likely to be hanged than their common counterparts.”

“Dwight’s right. Hangin' nor any sort of death doesn't solve anythin' or make anyone feel more secure.” Demelza shuddered thinking of Ned’s death sentence, relieved she had not been present to see it enacted. “And truly, I’m that sorry for Tess. And for you, Dwight, for havin' come upon such a scene.”

Still defensive of her beloved friends and not accepting the sympathy others might be extending to the dead woman, Caroline shot Demelza an incredulous look. Dwight offered Demelza an inquisitive one inviting her to expand.

“Tess must have been that lonesome off in Truro by herself. No friends, no relations,” Demelza went on.

_ No love. _

Such painful emotions--ones that had gutted her just months before and had since faded into only the memory of shadows--were not things Demelza would wish on anyone. Not even on Tess, one of the parties responsible for Demelza feeling that way in the first place. 

“Please, Dwight. Let me be the one to break it to Ross,” Demelza pleaded. “I’ll write a letter tonight that you can carry with you tomorrow and deliver to him yourself? It’s just, well, I believe knowin' Ross as I do, he’ll take this hard and I’d like to somehow help to soften the blow.”

“Of course, Demelza,” Dwight replied.

“If anyone can reach him, it would be you. I wish you the best of luck finding the right words, my dear,” Caroline patted her arm.

“Gracious me! I shall need luck, won’t I?” Demelza said breathlessly and drank a gulp of port for courage.

Yes, finding the right words to explain, and hopefully to forget, this whole tragic chapter would be a hard fought but necessary endeavour for whomever took up the pen. She wasn’t sure she could succeed but had to at least attempt it--not for her own ease of mind but for the comfort of others around her.


End file.
